


your harmony to the melody

by rnadison



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen, M/M, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, from peter specifically, i know ... stirring the pot !!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-07-28 06:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16235885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rnadison/pseuds/rnadison
Summary: Peter has told himself approximately 4,428 times in the last few months that, at some point, Sam is going to have a soulmate, and it’s not going to be him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ohhh i'm such a sucker for soulmate AUs. it's time these two fools have one of their own. 
> 
> title from "you are the music in me" from the iconic hsm 2.

Peter takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “What time is it?”

Sam squints in the light of his phone. He yawns. “Uh, 3:41.”

Peter falls back onto his bed with a sigh. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I told you you didn’t have to stay.”

“I told you, it’s fine. Don’t even worry about it.”

Soul marks are a bit of a grey area for Peter. On one hand, he’d like to say he doesn’t care, that a stupid ink blotch on your skin shouldn’t dictate who you should be with for the rest of your life. On the other ... he’d be lying, if he said he wasn’t at least a _little_ bit curious to find out what his soul mark would be. The mark is one-half of a matching set, one of two items that need each other to function. Some people get simple ones, like pen and paper, or a needle and thread. Some are a little silly, like peanut butter and jelly. And some are just weird, like Robbie Jarvis, who has a shark’s head on his shoulder. But they’re always fitting to the people who bear them, and they’re always, always right.

He checks the time on his own phone. 3:48. Only a few minutes now, but it feels like an eternity. On a lighter note, he’s been sixteen now for almost four hours. Everyone gets it at sixteen. The mark appears on your birthday, at the exact moment you’re born -- not a second too soon, not a second too late. And of course Peter would be born at 3:52 in the morning.

“Just a few more minutes,” Sam murmurs, letting his arm fall back down once again. “Excited?” Sam doesn’t have his yet, so Peter gets the feeling that he’s living vicariously through him.

Needless to say, he’s quite disappointed.  “I just want it to be over with.”

Sam scoffs. “Yeah, you would be that way. When I get mine I’m going all out. I’ll cry, I’ll make a speech, I’ll let every girl in the room touch it --”

“Where do you see this happening, exactly? Victoria’s Secret at the mall?” If it’s a match, the mark will change color when your soulmate touches it. Or that’s what they’ve heard, anyway. Privately, Peter wonders where it’ll appear, if his will be in a place his soulmate could actually touch. Okay, he’s more than a little worried of it showing up on his ass or his dick or whatever, but that won't happen. Hopefully.

Suddenly Sam jolts up, phone in hand. “Dude -- dude --” he waggles the phone in Peter’s direction, but he’s already barreling out to the bathroom across the hall, stripping off his hoodie along the way. _Ohmygod ohmygod --_

“Do you see anything?” Peter asks as he twists in the mirror. In the yellow glow of the lights, everything looks disappointingly normal.

“No. Maybe it's on your --?”

But Peter’s miles ahead, pulling up the legs of his pajama bottoms. But he stops short once Sam gives what can only be described as a yelp.

“Wait, don't move! I think I see something!”

Peter stands stock still, as though the mark is a bee that has chosen him as its new victim. Heart pounding, he glances at Sam’s reflection in the mirror. “Where?”

“On the back of your neck,” San replies, breathless. “It's fading in like a -- like an old picture. Like a Polaroid. I-- hold on --” He ducks out of the room, leaving Peter shirtless in the bathroom.

“Sam? Sam! Damn it, can you at least tell me what it --?”

But he’s back as quick as he’d left, thumb scrambling to unlock his phone. The artificial _click-click_ of the camera shutter goes off. A moment later, Sam shoves his phone screen underneath Peter’s nose: the mark is right smack in the center of his neck, perched comfortably at the base of his spine. It looks no bigger than a quarter.

Peter straightens. “That’s a …”

A camera.

He zooms in. It’s a simple pictograph of an old-school film camera -- the big, clunky ones that were used in the 20s and 30s. Ones that used _actual_ film. Ones that were used to film some of his favorite movies.

“Well?” Sam presses. “What does it feel like?”

Peter swallows, then reaches back to feel the exact spot on his neck. He doesn’t feel any different. There is no flash of lightning, no life-changing revelation. Just him and Sam in his bathroom at 3:53 AM.

Sam doesn’t even wait for a response. “A video camera, that’s so you, dude,” he says. “God, I can’t wait for mine. I bet it’s gonna be like, one of the drama masks. Or a PS4 controller, how sick would that be?” He falls silent, gaze shifting to his reflection in the mirror, as though already imagining where his own mark might fall. “God, I can’t wait,” he says again.

Neither can Peter.

* * *

It doesn’t bother Peter, at first. The way he sees it, he’s got his whole life to figure out who’s got the other half for a _camera._ It certainly doesn’t seem like a common mark, either, so he doesn’t worry about it.

But now that’s he’s got his own mark, he can’t help but look at other people’s. Tail ends of marks sticking out from under shirt sleeves, peeking out from shirt collars. Ones clear as day on the backs of hands, or like him, on the backs of necks. He sees seashells, butterflies, anchors, windows. In chemistry he notices Allison Geisman’s mark is a shark’s tooth, and he makes a mental note to tell Robbie Jarvis about it. But no one has the other half of a camera -- whatever _that’s_ supposed to be.

He’s staring at Ryan Clifton’s mark in English -- an open book, funnily enough -- and his thoughts drift to Sam. Peter has told himself approximately 4,428 times in the last few months that, at some point, Sam is going to have a soulmate, and it’s not going to be him. He can pretend all he wants that he doesn’t know why it bothers him; turn a blind eye to the inevitable twinge of jealousy that always comes with thoughts like these. But the truth is, they’ve been _Peter-and-Sam_ for so long now, that fitting anyone else into that equation just feels … wrong. Like clothes that just don’t fit right.

He knows it’s more than that, though. It’s that and … something else. It’s an odd sense of warmth that he’s come to associate with Sam, and only Sam. It’s there when Sam’s arm hangs a little too long around his shoulders sometimes; it’s there in the secret smile of some inside joke they share. It’s there, for a fleeting moment, even when Sam sends him the good morning Snapchat to keep their streak. Of course, he’s not about to say all this out loud, because he’s not a complete and utter cretin. But it happens so much now that there’s no use in denying it.

Peter gives an uncomfortable squirm. The months between his own birthday and Sam’s have him in this weird limbo, a hopeless sort of anticipation for the off-chance that maybe Sam would have the matching piece to his camera. But then he’ll remember what Sam had said that night in his bathroom, how his eyes had shone when he rattled off possible marks of his own. The thought of matching with Peter -- no, it hadn’t even seemed to cross his mind.

And Peter tries to not let that thought cross his mind, too.

* * *

A few days later the dick drawings happen, and momentarily Peter is distracted from the whole soul mark business. He'd never been one to abandon a story once his interest had been piqued, and he certainly isn't going to stop now. During the initial set of interviews, he finds out that Dylan Maxwell has a carrot just above his elbow.

“Yeah, dude,” he says, pulling his sleeve back down. “That’s why I’ve got, like, so many carrot shirts. So whoever has the other half knows right away.”

“Do you know what Mackenzie’s is?”

“Doughnut. On her ankle.” Peter stares, but Dylan only shrugs. “Yeah, we know it’s not a match. But why not have fun in the meantime, you know?”

It’s not til Peter is back at home, doing homework with Sam, that he thinks about what Dylan said.

His eyes wander from his laptop screen and rest on Sam, who’s biting his thumbnail as he frowns at something at his own screen. What would it be like, if they tried something like … Dylan and Mackenzie? To know that the relationship is doomed from the start, but having the satisfaction of at least knowing what it would be like? Sam’s birthday is only in a few days; if it’s not a match, that’s pretty much the only thing Peter can hope for.

Sam glances up at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You look like you need to shit.”

Peter chooses to ignore this. “What did you get for number 5?”

Sam tells him, then goes on to bitch about how that can’t be the right answer, because Google says one thing but his notes another. Peter _ums_ and _aahs_ his way through, but the warmth seeps back into his chest once again, and it’s all he can do but hide the tiniest of smiles.

* * *

Peter throws himself gratefully into the doc, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to throw himself into a ditch over the soul mark thing. If Sam is still excited for his, he makes no mention of it; the days leading up to his birthday warrant no more mark speculation. In all honesty, Peter forgets all about it, happily spending every free moment he has on Dylan’s case.

So when Peter wakes up on the morning of the tenth, something feels … off. Like he went to bed too early on New Years Eve. A moment of panic engulfs him: is there a test coming up? A Morning Show event? His mom’s birthday?

Then it dawns on him. _Sam’s birthday. His mark._ He rubs his face with both hands. Yesterday they had finally gotten their hands on the school’s archive of official complaints, and Sam had stayed the night helping him sort through it. He’d passed out on the bean bag in the corner, a spare duvet thrown over him by Peter after the fact. It’s now or never.

Peter shakes his shoulder. “Sam.”

He lazily turns his head to face him with a tiny “mmh?” and despite the circumstance, Peter’s heart swells.

“I -- I totally forgot about your birthday, I was so wrapped up --”

“S’fine.”

There’s a pause where they just look at each other.

“Well, did you get it? Your mark?” Peter presses.

“Mhm."

Peter just stares at him.  “Well??” he says with an impatient huff. “What is it? Can I see it?”

“It’s a -- it’s a drama mask. Just like I said it would be.”

Peter’s mouth falls open. “No fucking way.”

Sam nods, the sleepiest of smiles spreading across his face. “Mhm. The one for comedy, too. Since we know I’m _hilarious_.”

“Can I see it?”

Sam turns away. “No, it’s like … on my thigh, dude. _Wayyy_ up there, if you get me.”

Peter does get him, and he drops it. He sits back on his heels as Sam pulls the duvet back up to his chin, an odd sinking feeling settling in his chest. “I just thought --”

“Hmm?”

“Never mind.”

So Sam got a drama mask. It fits him, it really does. Peter with the camera, and Sam with the drama mask. A shared love of stories, but told through different mediums. How bitterly fitting, Peter thinks as he heads out to the bathroom. Cliche as it is, to be so close, and yet so far -- it’s a cold leaden ball he can’t carry, and he’s sinking, sinking, sinking.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit short, but this looks like it's gonna be a two-parter. hope to see you guys in the next one! 
> 
> say hi to me on tumblr @connorsquarter!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my friends and i 100% call airheads extremes gay bacon. so.

Life went on, Peter supposes.

He supposes so, because him and Sam still do homework together, and watch movies on Netflix together, and still do pretty much everything together. Things don’t feel particularly different, but they’re not quite the same, either. They’re still _Peter-and-Sam,_ sure, but where there had been no restrictions lies a sudden new one: they never bring up the soul marks. And that’s fine-just-fine with Peter. So, yeah. He supposes the world can keep turning, as long as he’s still revolving around a bright sun of his own.

While he doesn’t feel like he’s sinking anymore, he does feel like he’s struggling to stay afloat. He hadn’t even jumped -- he’d been unknowingly nudged off the cliff, probably by one of Sam’s _stupid_ little smiles, or the way he always ran his hand through his hair, or the way the sunlight played across his features that day they did homework outside a Starbucks, _or, or, or …_

Now that he’s in so deep, it’s a little easy -- and a little painful -- to forget that they’re not a match. Like Peter is just a few strokes of ink away from those cheesy heart gifs on Sam’s Instagram story, or the bashful grin that only appears when he gets an unexpected compliment. A splotch away from kisses that can mean both hello and goodbye.

Peter finds himself looking less for his match and more for Sam’s; namely, someone with a tragedy mask as their mark. That has to be other half of an otherwise iconic duo. He’s managed to casually (and sometimes, not-so-casually) ask most of the theatre kids what their marks were, if they had them. None are a match, not even Gabi Granger, who has a mouse on her shoulder blade.

(That makes him feel a little better.)

But then the Turd Burglar happens.

Well, okay -- it’s not the Turd Burglar himself, necessarily.  It’s a great case. A seemingly invisible criminal, someone who’s nowhere, but everywhere at once. And in total honesty, Peter’s kind of missed having something like _Vandal_ to hyperfixate on. So, no, it’s not the new case. He supposes what he means is:   _and then Chloe Lyman happened._

Chloe is great and all, sure. She’s letting them stay in her house (okay, her _guest house,_ but holy shit. Where most people just have a spare bedroom, her family has a _guest house._ ) She has information that could be key to the case, and she’s an invaluable resource for background on Kevin McClain. And also, she makes killer chocolate chip cookies. Let the record show that yes, he had liked Chloe well enough.

That is, until he saw the mark on the inside of her arm.

* * *

 

Sunday.

Peter lingers in the candy aisle at CVS, looking between the display of Almond Joys and Hershey Kisses. It’s Bad Movie Sunday, a time-honored tradition that’s been held since freshman year. Sam and Peter used to fight so much over what movies to watch together that, more often than not, they would acquiesce to watching something they knew neither one of them would like. Ironically, it could sometimes be the one thing they could agree on. Now, of course, they don’t fight over movies that much -- even if Sam actually _likes_ those cookie-cutter Marvel movies. But the sentiment of thrashing a movie within an inch of its life had stayed, and Peter likes that -- that no matter what happens, some things just stay the same.

This week, it’s Peter’s turn to pick up the snacks. He’s already got the Airheads Extremes -- Sam’s favorite, which he also lovingly calls _gay bacon_ \-- and a box of popcorn. He goes for the Hershey Kisses and heads to the cash wrap.

The sun is setting by the time Peter gets back. “Sam, I got your gay bacon,” he calls out from the hall, toeing off his shoes. “Also, I’m not sure if we should do _The Emoji Movie_ or _Sausage Party? Sausage Party_ got lower ratings, so it might b ---” He stops short when he rounds the corner and ...  Chloe’s there, of course she’s there, she’s hunched over the counter with Sam, giggling at something he’s showing her on his phone.

Peter swings the CVS bag in a would-be casual way. Something tugs at his gut, but he’s not sure what. “Oh. Hey, Chloe.”

She glances up briefly, grin still lighting up her face. “Hi, Peter.” She’s in a big St. Bernardine sweater, her long blonde hair up in a bun, and Sam’s in one of his awful floral button-downs, and the odd sensation of third-wheeling -- one Peter is very familiar with -- visits him for a fleeting moment.

Sam taps the screen and puts his phone down. “I was just showing her the Wayback Boys. She hasn’t seen _Baby Fart 6_ yet.”

She gives a sage nod. “ _Groundbreaking_ content.”

“Absolutely.” Sam turns back to Peter. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Oh --- I, uh, I got your gay bacon. Airheads Extremes,” he adds, per Chloe’s wrinkled brow. “Bad Movie Sunday, dude.”

Chloe grins. “Ohhh… right. Sam told me. Date night.”

Peter can pretty much _feel_ his ears turning red. “It’s not a date, it’s just something we do --”

“Hmm, okay, intrepid journalists.” She hip-checks Sam and pushes up her sleeves, and it’s then that Peter sees it. Right there, clear as day, on the inside of her arm.

The mask for tragedy.

And oh, what a tragedy it is.

It’s a bit cliche to admit, even for Peter, but he swears to God time stops-- or maybe that’s just his heart. Of course. Of course Chloe is Sam’s match. She’s pretty in that girl-next-door way, and funny, too. They’re both into musicals -- a genre of theatre that’s left Peter stupefied on more than one occasion -- and more than once he’s overheard them gushing over their favorite songs and numbers. Not only that, they’re both crazy into skincare: at the Kirkland Mall excursion, post-Grayson interview, they were both drawn to the skincare section at the Sephora like moths. And looking at them now, Sam giving a playful comeback and Chloe’s laughter tinkling like bells, it couldn’t be more obvious. They’re a match, and they’re gonna have beautiful Broadway-bound babies with perfect skin --

“Oh, Sam, that reminds me. We should get going soon if you wanna be back in time _._ ”

Peter is brought back to Earth with an unpleasant bump. “Going? Going where?”

Sam gets a pained expression on his face. “Uh-- well, Chloe was just telling me about this used bookstore downtown? They’ve got, like this _huge_ drama section, with monologue books practically falling off the shelves. Way cheap, too.”

“I go there to get sheet music,” she nods, shoving her hands in her front pockets. “You could come, too, Peter, they have a pretty great film section.”

“Yeah, don’t even worry, we’ll be back in time for Bad Movie Sunday and everything,” Sam adds, almost apologetically. “Just a few hours, okay?”

They look at him expectantly. In another timeline, Peter might have said yes. In another timeline, one where he didn’t see Chloe’s mark, they might have all gone out together. Another timeline where he didn’t feel all the music in his heart suddenly click off at the tug of a sweater sleeve, and be left with that deafening silence.

“No,” he hears himself say. “You guys go. I can wait.”

Sam looks at him in that concerned beagle way he has. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

He can’t look at Sam right now. Can’t look at either of them. Instead he puts the bag on the counter and pretends to put its contents away in the cabinets. There’s almost an electric tension in the air now; eventually,  Sam murmurs a quiet goodbye before heading out. Chloe lingers a moment longer, fingers clutching the fabric of her sweater that gathers around her wrists, as though about to say something. _An apology, maybe?_ Peter thinks for one wild moment, but of course he can’t expect that of her. It doesn’t seem like either of them know about their marks.

But she only turns and heads out.

Peter lets himself fall on the couch. Once, when they were kids, they’d climbed this big oak tree that shaded the entrance to Sam’s neighborhood. But even then it was pretty clear that Peter wasn’t the outdoorsy type, and at some point he’d lost his grip and fallen, landing flat on his back. It had knocked all the air out of him, and it had been unlike any sensation he’d ever felt before, then or since.

But this?

This came pretty close.

* * *

Kevin McClain’s mark is one of the more visible ones: a tiny speaker at the base of his thumb. It seems an odd choice, but the universe could be weird that way, Peter supposes. He had certainly not planned to be spending his Sunday night with Kevin drinking authentic Japanese peach oolong tea, either, but again, the universe works in mysterious ways.

(Or: Peter’s still bitter that Sam and Chloe went out on Bad Movie Sunday. No big deal. He can go out, too.)

“Peter,” Kevin finally says, setting his mug down on the coffee table. “I’m flattered by your presence, but would it be out of place for me to say that it’s … odd?”

Peter dunks the tea bag in and out of the water in his own mug. “In what way?”

“Well, I can only presume the Turd Burglar case is much more important than voluntarily spending your time here, with … me. And, it’s fair to assume that, if not working on that, you’re with Sam.”

“Um, not all the time, though.” But despite this, he can’t help the little swell his heart gives. _You’re with Sam._ He likes the way it sounds.

“On the contrary. You know, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought you two had …” Kevin makes a vague gesture with his hand. “I would’ve thought it’s a … soul match.”

“It’s not.”

Kevin fixes him with a look of curious surprise. “And you’re certain?”

Peter wraps his hands around the mug. He’s never been totally warm here in Bellevue; once, he got an Instagram ad for gloves that were supposed to keep your hands warm while typing, and he’d actually seriously considered it.

“Yeah, pretty sure. He said his mark was one of the drama masks. You know, the duo --?”

“Comedy and tragedy.”

“Yeah. He said he got the comedy one.”

There’s a lull where Kevin moves his arm in such a way that Peter thinks he’s going to give a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but then Kevin seems to think better of it, and lets his hand fall back in his lap.

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. He told me a long time ago.”

_And, uh, by the way, I think he’s a match with Chloe. I’m definitely sure he’s a match with Chloe._

(He’s not really ready to say that part out loud yet.)

_And yes, I’ve had this stupid, stupid crush on him ever since ninth grade and I spent so long thinking it was gonna be a match that I can’t get over it._

He’s pretty sure he didn’t say that out loud, either, but it must be all over his face, because a few moments later Kevin lays a sympathetic hand on the sleeve of his sweater.

* * *

The next morning, Peter sits at the kitchen counter with his laptop, the cold of the polished granite seeping through not just his hoodie sleeve, but the second layer of a long-sleeved shirt underneath. It never fails. Either Peter has a very stunted metabolism, or him and Bellevue just do not agree.

One of the bedroom doors opening behind him signals Sam’s entrance. He’s still bitter that Sam and Chloe had gone out last night, so he very determinedly keeps his gaze trained on his laptop screen.

“‘Morning,” Sam says.

Peter only grunts in reply.

“You weren’t home when I came back last night.”

Another grunt. “I was hanging out with Kevin.”

Sam looks at him over the door of the fridge, confusion painting his features. “With Kevin?”

“Yup. Not nice when people make plans without you, right?”

Sam does an -- admittedly impressive -- eyeroll, and he heaves the milk jug onto the counter. “Oh, Christ, not that again.”

“Not what again?”

“Chloe literally _invited_ you, dude, you could have come with if you weren’t being such a negative Nancy--”

“It’s not that, Sam, if you’re gonna do soulmate things with your soulmate, I’d rather you tell me a day or two _before_ \--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sam says quickly. He’s brandishing a teaspoon at Peter, which is coated with the unmistakable dust of mocha mix. “You think Chloe is my soulmate?”  

Sam looks like he’s going to laugh, but that only pisses Peter off even more. “I _know_ Chloe is your soulmate.” God, just saying it out loud makes the leaden ball in his chest grow heavier and heavier. “Don’t act like you didn’t see her mark --”

“I did see her mark --”

“Okay, so I don’t know why we’re fucking fighting then!”

“I don’t know why either!”

“Come on, Sam, don’t be dumb.” Peter’s standing now, and his face feels hot, the way it did when he was a kid and he was about to cry. “You’re the comedy mask, she’s the tragedy mask, I mean, it’s not _rocket science_ \--”  

Sam splutters. “You think -- you think her mark is that tragedy mask?”

Peter stares. “I mean … yeah. Isn’t it?”

“No,” Sam says, failing to squelch a grin. “It’s a _temporary tattoo._ ” He says it slowly, like Peter’s some worked up six year old who needs to be chastised. “If you paid any attention to anything outside of the doc, you’d know that the St. Bernie drama department was giving them out that Friday at lunch. I got one, too. ”

Peter feels lightheaded, and he grips the edge of the chair. “So it’s not … you’re not…”

Sam shakes his head. “Her mark is a microphone on her collarbone, dude. She showed me a while ago. I’m _pretty_ sure she’s supposed to match with Kevin.” He leans against the counter, fixing Peter with his patented _God-you’re-so-dumb_ look, and two things occur to Peter in that moment.

  1. he deserves it.
  2. it’s adorably reassuring.



“And, uh … even if she was the tragedy mask, it probably -- it wouldn’t be a match. With me, I mean. ”

“What do you mean?”

Sam suddenly looks horribly uncomfortable. “My mark. It’s not --” he clears his throat. “It’s not what I said. Before. A comedy mask. It’s not -- that.”

Peter’s mouth suddenly feels very dry, like it’s full of cotton balls. “So… you … lied.”

“No! No, no, it’s -- I didn’t mean it like that, Peter, I swear. It’s just … I wasn’t ready to tell you, back then.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “So … what, then?”

Sam shifts uncomfortably, the unmistakable look of guilt setting into his features.

“What is it, Sam?”

He squirms, hesitates.  “It’s a… well, it’s …” An incomprehensible mumble makes up the rest of the sentence.

“Sam. Please.”

Sam gives a great sigh and turns. deliberately avoiding eye contact with Peter. “It’s a fucking roll of film, Peter.” With that he lifts up a corner of his shirt, there it is.

An old-school cinema roll of film, right there between his ribs. The kind where the cells are wound tightly around the center pivot. The kind that only old cameras used. The kind that would fit perfectly with the camera on Peter’s neck.

Peter’s mouth works soundlessly; a mess of questions bubble up in his head, but for some reason, the one that makes it out first is: “I thought it was on your thigh?”

Sam scoffs. “C’mon, Mr. Netflix Detective. I said that so you wouldn’t look.”

 _That’s fair_ , Peter thinks. Sam pulls his shirt back down, and, ears red, finally puts his coffee mug in the microwave. And Peter, lost in the tentative haze of happiness, still tinged with strands of disbelief, is still struggling to work out the next question he wants to ask. “Why didn’t you …?”

Sam leans against the counter, arms crossed tight across his chest. “‘Cause I knew you’d —- you’d freak out. Shit, _I_ freaked out. I panicked and said it was that … mask thing. And then the months went by and it got harder and harder to tell the truth. I thought you … I don’t know. I thought if you knew, we wouldn’t be able to be friends anymore.”

Well, Sam’s half-right about that one. Peter _is_ freaking out, but not in the way Sam’s thinking. After a moment of letting this new information sink in, Peter drags both his hands across his face.

Sam immediately bristles. “What?”

It starts off as a low chuckle, but it’s not long before a delirious sort of laugh reverberates off the kitchen tile. “Sam. The reason I didn’t take this mark as a sign that I should jump into your arms and kiss you is because I thought your soulmate was some actor … person! Of course I wanted it to be you, I -- I’ve liked you for almost four years!”

Sam can only acquiesce with a knowing smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a moment where neither of them quite know what to follow that up with, their silence broken only by the rumble of the microwave.What is he supposed to do _now?_ The revelation is always the end of the soulmate story: _I saw he had a fishing hook and I had a fishing pole and we lived happily ever after …_

Sam pushes himself off the counter, as though reading his thoughts.  “You know, I was right to worry. If I like you and you like me… that means we can’t be friends anymore.”

“What?”

“We won’t be friends anymore,” Sam repeats. “Because as it turns out, I met my soulmate a _long_ time ago.” The word dangles in the air between them, in the space that gets exponentially smaller as Sam steps closer to him.

Peter's backed into the countertop of the kitchen island; Sam leans forward with both arms resting on its edge, and Peter's honestly exactly twelve seconds away from exploding. “When was that, Sam?”

"In fourth grade, when this dorky kid with glasses asked me what I thought of _The Iron Giant._ " 

When they’re close, literally millimeters apart, the last question Peter had been scrambling to find bubbles up to the surface, like a fart in a bath.

“Uh -- just so we’re clear -- you don’t like Chloe, right?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “No, Peter, pretty sure I’m looking at the person I like _right now_ .” And before Peter can ask any more asinine questions, Sam finally, _finally_ kisses him.

There a ton of books and magazine articles that describe a first kiss between soulmates as _fire_ or _fireworks_ or _sparks_ or something just as cliche. It’s supposed to differ from couple to couple, but generally they’re reported as the same kind of sensation. And Peter would be lying if he hadn’t thought at least a little bit about what it might feel like for him. But for Peter, this isn’t fire. It’s light, it’s warmth, it’s sunshine spilling through him, warm and sweet and golden like honey. The cold of the house, of Bellevue -- it’s immediately forgotten at Sam’s touch, melting away, making room for an early spring.

The microwave beeps. Peter pulls away first, struck by sudden memory.

Sam’s brow furrows. “What?”

“I owe Dylan Maxwell ten bucks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [whirls New Year's noisemaker around] it's over !! it's done !! i know this wasn't particularly long, but i actually had a really hard time wrapping this up because sam and peter just bounced off each other for ages, pining in that obnoxious way they do. 
> 
> but i hope you enjoyed it !! 
> 
> and as always feel free come say hi to me on tumblr @connorsquarter!

**Author's Note:**

> a bit short, but this looks like it's gonna be a two-parter. hope to see you guys in the next one! 
> 
> say hi to me on tumblr @connorsquarter!


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